Flash Nonfiction by Susan Terris
The man who once stood on a chair was also the one who took me skating with him every Saturday morning when I was a girl.
The man who once stood on a chair was also the one who took me skating with him every Saturday morning when I was a girl.
Now I’m half the stoner I used to be, liquor-free, and he’s gone.
I frog-kick closer, desperate to recapture what has been lost.
The flash form often invites me to use what I call a communal or a collective voice.
Sometimes I felt an unnameable foreboding—a harbinger that my easy state of grace was beginning to slip away.
It would be my call to make, that perfect moment of doneness.
I’ll put her hair in pigtails, fishtails, French braids, waterfall braids, Dutch braids—whatever she wants.
The boy’s pulse listed as he helped me learn the jerk of the clutch.
She convinced herself that the people on the walls were really her family.
What do the noises from my side sound like to them?